


Nights Become Days

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, M/M, Morning After, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Second Time, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was suspiciously quiet and when John finally chanced a glance at him, he was completely unsurprised to see Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration, moving through his usual deductive capabilities. John knew the exact moment Sherlock became aware of the entire situation, as his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline and he gasped a little <i>oh</i> before a furiously crimson blush infused his absurd cheekbones. </p>
<p>"John, I," Sherlock cleared his throat and visibly steeled himself. "John, I believe we may have had sexual intercourse last night."</p>
<p>John sighed and rubbed his face again. "Yep, I got there myself actually."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights Become Days

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first attempt at cleaning out my Google Drive folder. I started this one _ages_ ago; long before S3 had even been announced. It contains absolutely no spoilers or redeeming value other than pure, shameless porn for porn's sake. Enjoy :D
> 
> Title borrowed from Frank Turner

**Nights Become Days**

 

John wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten into this mess. His head hurt, he was cold and his back was screaming at him. Of course the sun would choose this morning of all days to shine infuriatingly bright. His eyes felt strangely gummy and itchy simultaneously and his bed was wet.

That thought had him startled. Why would his bed be wet? Stretching his hands over, he felt... grass. _Grass?_ Why was there grass in his bed? Moving his hand farther left, he distinctly felt the warm slide of skin against his palm.

John's eyes snapped open and he immediately groaned as the beams of light stabbed into his retinas. _Christ_ that hurt. Inching his lids open again, he allowed his eyes to dilate and took in his surroundings. He was... in a field. Wait _, what?_

He was lying on his back in what looked like the early hours of morning, in nothing but his pants. In a field. Almost terrified of his own revelations, John turned to face the other person and was not completely surprised to see Sherlock, face down in a pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs and absolutely nothing else.

John tried to roll over and felt his body scream in protest. He was far too old for this kind of shite. Feeling spiteful and realizing that it was probably all his fault anyway, John kicked sharply at the pale shin within reach. Sherlock gave a small jump and then groaned, rubbing his face into the grass and effectively smearing his nose with dirt. John snorted in amusement, but nudged Sherlock's calf with his toes again.

"Oi. Genius. Wake up," he croaked. His voice seemed largely to be missing, so he cleared his throat and immediately regretted that rash decision. It felt like he was trying to swallow glass.

"John?" Sherlock finally said, voice lower than John had ever heard it and sounding equally gravelly. His pale eyes blinked open before he winced dramatically and brought his hands up to cover his whole face. He groaned again. "John, what have you done?"

John's eyebrows shot up and he found himself bristling at the affront. "What have _I_ done? I'm not the one who insisted on coming out to bloody _Yorkshire_ for the weekend on a sodding whim!"

Sherlock glared—well, as much of a glare as he could while still looking positively miserable. "It was hardly a _whim_ , John. Our lead lives just on the other side of town. How was I supposed to know she left for Cambridge Thursday evening?"

John glared right back, still trying to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. "How do you know anything else, Sherlock? Use your divine mind-reading powers or whatever and stop dragging us all over the bloody country!"

Sherlock huffed, but seemed to deem this statement unworthy of an answer. John sighed, rubbing his palms flat to his eye sockets. His head was pounding and he felt like he could drink down an entire river in his thirst.

"Look," he started, "Can we not do this here? I'd kill for a coffee and some paracetamol right about now." Sherlock nodded vaguely and began the arduous process of righting himself. He winced with pain as he rolled onto his back, simultaneously throwing an elbow across his eyes and reaching around to rub at his arse.

"John, why am I sore?" he rumbled.

John just looked at him inquisitively. Until he went to move himself and felt a distinctly familiar and entirely unpleasant itchy, sticky feeling in his pants. John's eyes went wide, but he immediately shut them against the sunlight.

"Jesus fuck. Shit, shit, _shit_ ," he grumbled as the absolutely unmistakable feeling of congealing come scraped across his bollocks. "Oh Christ, tell me this is all some horrible nightmare," he groaned, digging his fingers into his temples to try and abate the pain.

Sherlock was suspiciously quiet and when John finally chanced a glance at him, he was completely unsurprised to see Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration, moving through his usual deductive capabilities. John knew the exact moment Sherlock became aware of the entire situation, as his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline and he gasped a little _oh_ before a furiously crimson blush infused his absurd cheekbones.

"John, I," Sherlock cleared his throat and visibly steeled himself. "John, I believe we may have had sexual intercourse last night."

John sighed and rubbed his face again. "Yep, I got there myself actually."

Sherlock stared at him hard for a moment, face still flaming, before shaking his head and running his fingers through his curls, dislodging some of the dried grass that clung to the glossy strands.

John's eyes were beginning to water in the harsh dawn light. He moved to get up, trying to figure out where exactly they were. He wasn't entirely certain if his clothes were missing or disposed of, but he couldn't see them from where he sat and that was alarming enough.

"John," Sherlock started, voice full of something that might have been embarrassment. "Should we... _talk_ about this?"

John sighed, "Yeah, probably." Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth, closed it again and took a deep breath. John shook his head, pulling the sticky front of his pants away from his prick and wincing at the uncomfortable cold. "Not here, though, yeah?"

Sherlock looked relieved and took John's hand, allowing the shorter man to pull him to his feet. They both squirmed a little once vertical, but they fell into an uncomfortable silence as they began to walk. John was following Sherlock's lead, as the man seemed to have at least some idea as to where they were going. After what seemed like hours, but was in actuality only fifteen minutes, they crested a hill and spotted their small cottage B&B. John sighed in relief, only to remember that he was still wearing nothing but his sticky underwear.

"Erm, Sherlock?" he said, apprehension clearly laced through his voice.

"It's alright, John. The proprietors are out for the morning already. Nobody will see us stumble in half-naked."

John nodded, but it made his head throb, so he simply followed Sherlock into the cottage, climbing the stairs with a numb sense of dread. He felt a little better once clad in his dressing gown, but the simple act of peeling his briefs off made him slightly nauseous. What the fuck had happened last night?

John heard the taps start up and grumbled slightly at the presumptuous nature of his flatmate. Of _course_ Sherlock would take the first shower. Muttering darkly under his breath, John padded down the stairs towards the cottage's little kitchen and began rummaging for coffee.

Caffeinated and pills swallowed, John made his way gingerly back up the narrow staircase, wanting to give Sherlock enough time for at least the illusion of privacy. Even if they had indeed had sex the night before, it didn't mean John had to be a dick about it.

After what seemed like forever, John heard the water stop and waited, lounging on the little chair in the corner of their room. Sherlock emerged in a cloud of steam, white towel wrapped precariously around his narrow hips. Seriously, that man needed to eat a lot more. John could count his ribs with startling clarity. Although, the lean muscle as it caught the morning light was particularly enticing and John found himself leaning unconsciously forward in his chair, eyes running appreciatively up Sherlock's thin abdomen, tripping delicately over the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the towel. Sherlock cleared his throat and John started, a guilty flush rising up his neck.

Wordlessly, he handed Sherlock his cup of tea and two pills, which Sherlock swallowed with a grimace of thanks. John tried very hard not to notice the gingerly way Sherlock perched himself on the edge of the mattress before he moved towards the little en suite.

John allowed the hot water to ease some of his tension, though he had absolutely no idea how to fix this. The silence that stretched between them was unusually strained and John hated the idea that he might have done this to their friendship. Guilt slid unwelcome and uncomfortable into the pit of his stomach. Sure, he'd noticed blokes before and if he were being entirely honest with himself, his libido tended to fixate rather firmly on his enigmatic flatmate more often than was probably considered sane. Sherlock was just... so completely unlike anyone John had ever met. He had to know he was gorgeous, though he didn't seem inclined towards any of the advances John had ever seen thrown at him. That thought caused a brief fission of panic to add to the guilt. Oh, god. Did John take advantage of him somehow?

The water was starting to get cold, so John turned off the taps and forced himself into calm before he had to face Sherlock again. Somehow, they would have to figure out what happened last night.

When John finally came out of the toilets, Sherlock was thankfully completely dressed in his usual crisp suit, lounging back against the headboard. As John neared his suitcase and started rummaging, Sherlock rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

"No, John. You did not force me or coerce me or any of the other guilt-ridden thoughts chasing themselves around your brain. I'm fairly certain it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. If anything, it was my idea."

John froze halfway through pulling on a pair of denims. "How can you be sure?"

"Please, John," Sherlock said, arch tone and derisive palpability extremely comforting in this case. "The evidence is overwhelming; directly under your nose. As ever, you see, but you do not observe."

John's eyes narrowed, but the mantra was actually making him feel marginally better. "Alright, fine. What am I not _observing_ then? Take me through the deductions."

Sherlock sighed melodramatically, but sat up on the bed, swinging his legs over the side and taking the full length of the room in three long strides. "I take it you don't recall much of last night?" he asked as he moved. John shook his head, glad that the paracetamol seemed to be finally taking effect.

Sherlock held up a small bottle that had been sitting inconspicuously on the side table. He shook the contents slightly, rattling them in John's direction. Suddenly, watching the little blue pills knocking against the glass brought back a flood of memories.

"Oh Jesus," John moaned, collapsing onto the bed and rubbing his palms across his eyes. "You drugged us!"

Sherlock glared over to John before twirling the bottle between his long fingers. "I seem to recall it being a mutual decision, in fact." His voice had gone hard and sharp with the accusation and John groaned, digging his fingers into his temples. He really was far too hung over for this kind of conversation.

"Alright," John sighed eventually, staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock had frozen in his peripheral vision and was studying John's prone form with almost physical intensity. "I clearly don't remember, so why don't you just tell me and get it over with."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed again, but he huffed out a long-suffering sigh that clearly stated what kind of idiot he thought John was being before he collapsed onto the bed next to him, making the mattress bounce with a creak of protesting springs. John cocked an eyebrow at their proximity, but turned his head to listen to the genius speak.

"Do you at least remember going to the local pub to gather information?" Sherlock asked, tone condescending, but still slightly curious. John nodded an affirmation.

"Do you remember buying a round of drinks when the local dealer turned up?" John's brow furrowed, but he had a vague memory of a gangly, spotty, early-twenty-something speaking in low tones to Sherlock as John downed his third pint. John had been particularly venomous when they realized their quarry was long gone and had decided to get pissed and charge it all on Sherlock's tab. It was the least he could do for dragging John halfway across the country for absolutely no reason. He distinctly remembered seeing Sherlock's hand slip into his overly tight trouser pocket just as the youth was leaving. He definitely remembered the rage-induced panic that sang through his veins when he thought Sherlock had scored some cocaine, and he also remembered the feeling of a fine, slightly damp oxford shirt beneath his palm when he had roughly taken Sherlock's shoulder in a death-grip.

Sherlock was watching him, no doubt seeing the memories chase themselves across John's features. John sighed again and tried to let go of his residual anger from the previous night. Clearly Sherlock hadn't done any kind of cocaine as there weren't any syringes in the vicinity and he would never compromise his sense of smell.

"The drug was popular with our lead, if you recall. It's a mild form of hallucinogen, dissolved under the tongue for maximum effect. It makes the user euphoric, floaty, and extremely aware of touch."

"So clearly you decided it was a good idea to dose us both and, what? Run amok in a town we know nothing about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not, John. I intended to administer them to myself and have you monitor the effects."

At this, John groaned again. He definitely remembered this next bit. "Oh Christ, I took them too because I said you didn't deserve to have all the fun on your own."

"You were quite drunk, John," Sherlock said, in as close to a placatory tone as he could muster.

As John closed his eyes, flashes of images and memories assailed his senses. Vague recollections of warm, pale skin under his tongue, long, _long_ limbs wrapped tightly around him as he buried himself into slick heat over and over. _Jesus_ , John was getting hard just thinking about it. He swallowed audibly and opened his eyes. Sherlock was leveling a gaze at him that spoke all too clearly of the memories chasing themselves around his own head.

John swallowed again, trying to keep his mouth from watering overmuch at the remembered taste of Sherlock's skin. He shut his eyes tight and willed his erection away, at least a little.

"Ok, so there were drugs involved, which I apparently took willingly. How did we end up out in a sodding _field_ to sleep, though?"

Sherlock glanced towards the window, his jaw clenching and John knew the signs of Sherlock stumped.

"You don't remember, do you," John stated, lips quirking slightly. It wasn't a question and Sherlock just glared at the implications behind his lack of brain power. Christ, but he was infuriating.

"I vaguely recall you complaining about how hot it was in this room, which explains your lack of clothing, but as for how we ended up out in the middle of nowhere is distressingly beyond me." Sherlock looked as though this confession had taken all of his considerable mental strength to say, so John let it go for now, choosing instead to aim a very small smirk at the ceiling. His head hurt, yes, but as the fuzziness of the hangover abated a little, he was finding it more and more difficult not to notice Sherlock's intoxicating smell: slightly damp wool, overpriced aftershave, tobacco (John didn't even bother anymore about the mysterious cigarettes that managed to appear out of nowhere) and testosterone. He really was in far too close proximity for John's poor, drug addled brain and the scent was going straight to John's cock.

He could just remember the sense memory of burying his face in Sherlock's long, pale neck and inhaling while bony hip bones dragged along his in a frenzied rhythm... _Christ._

"John?" Sherlock's voice was tentative and a little concerned. John cleared his throat again and took a deep breath.

"Look, I don't know the exact details of last night, but I _do_ know I'll do anything I can to not have this ruin our friendship."

"Oh, I doubt there's any danger of that," Sherlock said dismissively and John could actually feel him shrug against his shoulder.

John felt his face change into incredulity. "Sherlock, sex changes _everything_."

"It doesn't have to. In fact, my only regret is the complete lack of clarity. Sex with you is something I would have hoped to remember."

John's eyes snapped open and he turned his head to stare at Sherlock in astonishment. Sherlock looked calm as a fucking cucumber, as though they were discussing nothing more than the bland details of a disappointingly easy case. He must have felt John's gaze and anticipated his reaction, because when he turned to face him on the bed, the left corner of his lips were quirked up and there was nothing but warmth in his eyes.

"You..." John started, not entirely knowing what he wanted to say.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, voice and expression softening into something that could almost be considered _sentiment_ in anyone else.

"But—"

"Don't be _dull_ , John. Is it really that difficult to believe?"

And it really wasn't. John knew they were a little more than platonic when it came to their relationship and he didn't deny that he might have, once or twice, noticed how incredibly fit Sherlock was. It was kind of hard to ignore with him swanning around the flat in little more than a dressing gown and pants on some days. There was no denying John lived with an incredibly attractive man, even if he wasn't _classically_ beautiful. There was just something about him that drew John in, even from that very first day.

"Okay," John said slowly, trying to wrap his mind around this incredible new turn in his life. It made his head hurt. He decided to change the subject: "Right. So. Any long term side effects we should worry about?"

Sherlock's left eyebrow started its arduous journey towards his curls and his smirk deepened. "Other than an incredibly convenient outlet for your highly contagious sexual frustration, you mean?"

John sighed, but couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped before he could stop it. He couldn't tell if he was dizzy as an aftereffect of the drugs plus his hangover or if it was the subject making his pulse quicken and his palms sweaty. "I _meant_ the drugs, you tosser."

Sherlock snorted, but let it go. "I doubt there will be any long term effects to worry about. Probably an inconvenient case of dry-mouth and a bit of lightheadedness, but that shouldn't last more than a few hours more, if they've not worn off completely already. The slight amnesia is an unfortunate oversight I hadn't considered, but seeing as you and I are both completely coherent now, I doubt that will be an issue either."

John nodded and was relieved when it didn’t feel as though his head would explode. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, intense and focused as ever.

“Now that the perfunctory medical concerns have been alleviated, can we please get back to the matter at hand?” Sherlock asked, his voice tightly amused and full of something John had never heard before.

“The matter…” John started, sure Sherlock couldn’t mean what he thought he meant.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned up on one bony elbow to loom over John, mercurial eyes boring through his as though he were searching for something crucial. “Surely even you’re not this dense, John.”

“Sex?” John blurted, and immediately felt his face flush with color. Christ, it was as though he were back in secondary school.

Sherlock’s smirk was decidedly predatory and John’s breath caught as he leaned forward, eyes focused intently on John’s mouth. “Yes, John. Sex. Although I was planning on a bit of seductive subterfuge first. However, if you’d rather just get down to it…” he trailed off and John felt his body tense in anticipation.

The first touch of Sherlock’s lips was disturbingly normal. It’s not as though John expected fireworks or the eighteen-twelve overture or monumental shifts in the tectonic plates, but he had always imagined (when he allowed himself to imagine) that kissing Sherlock would constitute as some sort of life-altering experience hitherto unmentioned except in Harry’s terrible romance novels. It was oddly… sweet. Sherlock’s plush lips felt precisely as they looked: soft and warm and deliciously plump, if slightly chapped and dry. John tried to mentally catalogue every subtle shift as they pressed more firmly against his, but it was just a kiss. A _normal_ kiss, and John was startled to realize he was slightly disappointed.

Sherlock pulled back, brow furrowed and expression calculating before he muttered a soft _ah_ and leaned back in, only this time, there was nothing chaste or tentative at all. John felt the spark of anticipation swell into an overwhelming inferno as Sherlock’s tongue swept along his in an achingly intimate slide of sensual heat. John groaned and tilted his head, sealing their lips together further and was startled to realize his hands had wound themselves into riotous dark curls. Sherlock’s mouth was demanding and intense, much like the man himself, and John couldn’t help but get swept up in the heat of it.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, lips rubbing softly against John’s before his eyes blinked open and John saw that he looked about as wrecked as John felt.

“Well,” John started after the pause became more than a little awkward.

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he flashed John a dazzling smile, and John was momentarily speechless at the sheer beauty of it. So overwhelmed was he, that he nearly missed it as Sherlock loomed closer again, capturing John’s lower lip between his teeth and scraping backwards in a move that caused John’s back to curl against the mattress automatically.

“Christ,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side so Sherlock could have better access to his neck as he nibbled and licked his way down to John’s pulse point. Sherlock’s low hum of appreciation went straight through John’s collarbone and into his chest, thrumming through his bloodstream, and centering somewhere beneath his ribs. John’s fingers tightened around surprisingly soft curls and he felt himself twist upwards as though he were watching from a great distance. Sherlock rolled himself forward, laying fully on him now and John felt all the points where they touched burn with erotic pleasure.

John’s hands wandered of their own volition, and before he could stop himself, his fingers were flexing around two lusciously full globes of bare arse, his clever hands having slid between layers of fine wool and sweat-damp skin. Sherlock moaned into the curve of his jaw and began rutting against him in earnest, the obvious throb in his erection evident even through four layers of clothing. John could feel his own arousal spiking to meet it and the next time Sherlock shifted forward, John pulled him in and met him in a hard thrust upwards.

“God, John,” Sherlock panted, bracing himself on his forearms and pulling away to stare into John’s face. He looked utterly delicious, and John found himself leaning up, chasing Sherlock’s lips with his own before grinding his hips up in a slow circle.

“I want to fuck you,” John murmured into the delicate shell of Sherlock’s ear, savoring the full-body shudder as his words registered, “And I want to remember it this time.”

“Much as I agree with that sentiment,” Sherlock gasped, arching down against John and dragging his teeth along John’s carotid, “I’m afraid bodily restrictions might make that a difficult feat to achieve, John.”

“Ah,” John said and momentarily paused. He did feel rather badly since Sherlock was obviously sore. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that, and the knowledge that he’d hurt Sherlock in any way took the edge off his urgency.

“Don’t be _dull_ , John. I assure you the minor discomfort I feel is nothing to worry about,” Sherlock purred, grinding his hips down against John and causing him to gasp into an overly sharp collar bone. “It’s certainly not deterring me from any activity at all.”

John arched up and moaned when Sherlock’s erection rubbed tantalizingly against his own and the words were out of his mouth before he fully thought about them: “You could fuck me instead.”

Sherlock paused, his whole body ceasing all motion and John felt his cheeks flame with shocked embarrassment. Sherlock was gazing down on him with a look of genuine surprise on his face before it shifted seamlessly into barely controlled hunger. “Always a surprise, John Watson,” he growled and surged forward, biting a kiss into John’s mouth.

John felt his body give as Sherlock unequivocally took over, his hips grinding a lazy pattern between John’s thighs. The delicious slide of it was entirely unexpected, and John let his head fall back to the pillows as Sherlock leaned forward to grind his teeth against John’s ear. He felt the bed shift as Sherlock leaned over the side, clearly rummaging in his case for something John couldn’t see. John felt dazed; unbearable arousal warring with barely-acknowledged memories and making his blood burn with need.

Sherlock returned a moment later, brandishing a small tube of lubricant and a condom with an expression of heated triumph. John couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across his lips at Sherlock’s enthusiasm, and he hastily began unfastening his newly replaced clothing. Sherlock sat back on his heels and watched as John stripped off his shirt and vest, getting stuck only when he tried to tug his denims down. Sherlock smirked and reached forward, running an impossibly long finger up the length of John’s straining cock before dipping just below the elastic band on his pants.

“Someday soon, John,” he purred, his expression hungry and possessive, “someday soon I’ll have this magnificent cock inside me again, and I promise to remember it this time.” John shuddered at the words; Sherlock’s voice seeming to melt over him like a warm, velvety blanket.  He could feel a thick drop of pre-come beading at the end of his prick, dampening the fabric and causing another shiver of arousal to run up through his spine.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed and he trapped his sinfully full bottom lip between his teeth before kneeling up and starting on his own clothes. John watched, fascinated, as he slowly slipped the small buttons through their holes, revealing inch after tantalizing inch of pale flesh. It wasn’t as though John had never seen Sherlock’s skin before; for Christ’s sake, the man had _just_ been in this very room in nothing but a precariously placed towel, but somehow this felt different. Each glimpse of newly revealed skin made John’s pulse speed up, every hint of wiry muscle caused his own body to tense, Sherlock’s inherent grace making his movements seamless and undeniably sexual.

Sherlock slipped the shirt from his shoulders slowly, as though he knew exactly what he was doing to John’s overactive libido; his muscles flexing and shifting as he tossed the shirt carelessly to the floor. He leaned forward and ghosted his lips across John’s chest, small puffs of humid air stirring the sparse hair and causing John to shiver again. John finally seemed to regain the use of his limbs and he reached forward, skimming the very tips of his fingers along Sherlock’s milky skin and glorying in the gooseflesh that rose to meet them. Sherlock huffed a little into his neck and his spine dipped forward, melding their naked torsos together to slide heated skin against overly heated skin.

John groaned and felt his body arch of its own volition. He was so turned on his teeth hurt, and he clamped his mouth shut on the litany of pleading attempting to spill out over his tongue. He felt Sherlock’s smirk against the side of his neck and tried to suppress the wanton moan as Sherlock began crawling down his body, lips and tongue pressing into every single bit of skin they encountered. Sherlock paused at John’s nipple, flicking his gaze up and catching John in a crossbeam of heady desire.

John watched in stunned disbelief as Sherlock’s wicked tongue snaked out to circle his nipple, the flesh taught and straining already. A jolt of pure lust spiked through his system and he found his fingers tangled into inky curls, tugging perhaps a little harder than he intended, but judging by the low growl the action produced, it didn’t seem as though Sherlock minded much. Sherlock retaliated by sucking John’s hardened nipple between his teeth and tugging, and John felt it all the way through to his bollocks. He arched and groaned, beyond caring about how he sounded, so long as Sherlock never stopped this sweet torture.

“Jesus,” John whined. His cock was so hard now, he could feel every pulse of his heartbeat throbbing through the engorged flesh, his foreskin completely retracted to reveal the shining head covered in slick pre-come. Sherlock chuckled darkly around his mouthful and finally released John’s nipple, leaving a dark bruise behind that John knew he’d cherish for days.

Sherlock shot him a heated glance again before his mouth wandered down John’s abdomen, slowly spreading tendrils of fire as he kissed, pressed and licked his way down to the trail of wiry hair below John’s navel. He breathed over the skin there, and John felt his cock twitch again, the front of his pants so damp now he could clearly see the thick ridge of his frenulum through the wet fabric. Sherlock seemed to pause for an unbearable moment before he simply engulfed the head of John’s cock right through the cotton. John’s hips lunged forward, his spine curling up as he sought more contact, but Sherlock kept his mouth soft, maddeningly gentle pressure against the exposed glans, encased as they were in their fabric prison.

“Sherlock, Christ,” John moaned. His legs were still trapped by his denims, caught as they were halfway down his thighs. He could feel the zip digging into his scrotum, his cock straining through the fabric with each wet swipe of Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock moaned; a throaty, rumbling sound that seemed to come from his very bones and he tugged the fabric away with his teeth, sucking obscenely at the damp cotton as though trying to extract every single taste of John from the unworthy garment.

“Fuck,” John breathed, afraid for a moment that he might actually come from that sight alone. Sherlock’s long lashes swept open and he fixed John with a gaze full of so much heat, John literally questioned the physics behind spontaneous combustion. Sherlock pulled back a fraction and ran his tongue along his abused bottom lip, his mouth impossibly red. John squirmed, trying and failing to shove his pants down, but his legs were still trapped around Sherlock’s strong thighs, and he only succeeded in frustrating himself further.

“Sherlock please, I need to feel you,” John gasped, so far beyond dignity it was nearly laughable. Sherlock shot him a dirty smirk and intentionally ground forward, the thick ridge of his cock pushing insistently into John’s groin and causing sparks of sensation to rocket through his nerves. Sherlock finally relented, shifting himself back far enough to tug at his own trousers and pants, his cock springing free: red and swollen and positively _drenched_ , and John felt his mouth water uncontrollably at the sight.

“Fuck,” John breathed again, momentarily distracted from his haste to free himself. Sherlock moved forward again, eyes dark and needy and locked on John’s straining erection. John caught himself staring and mentally shook himself, gathering enough of his motor skills to finally push his jeans down, catching his soaked pants with his thumbs and kicking the lot off the edge of the bed. He was suddenly remarkably aware of his faults, his confidence stuttering a little at the sight of Sherlock’s perfect body hovering before him.

John knew he had nothing to be ashamed of; he still had some stubborn muscle left over from years of army training, even if he was a bit softer in the middle than he would have liked. He was also astutely aware of the fact that he’d woken up this morning in a field in nothing but his pants, which meant this body of his had been on display probably more than he cared to imagine in the past twenty four hours. Something about being the sole focus of the world’s most observant man, however, was doing terrible things to John’s self-confidence. He felt his erection flagging a little at the intense scrutiny, made ever more embarrassing by Sherlock’s raised eyebrow.

“John,” he said softly, his voice still laced through with thready need, but hesitant now; as though he was finally perceptive of John’s emotional state. His expression softened marginally, and he reached forward to run the very tips of his elegant fingers across John’s stomach. “You are positively exquisite. There is no part of you I don’t wish to _consume_.”

Well. John’s dick gave an almighty jerk, and he felt momentarily light headed as all his blood seemed to rush to his suddenly diamond-hard cock. Sherlock’s smile was pure sex, and he climbed up onto the bed, leaning forward to lick a wet stripe from just below John’s balls all the way up to the leaking slit. John’s whole body twitched and he let loose a strangled moan that would have been embarrassing if he could think around the intense wave of arousal flooding through his brain. Sherlock hummed around the head of John’s cock, sucking the whole of it down into that gorgeous throat of his and swallowing around the head in a move John had only ever seen in secret on his computer. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his face and he swallowed again, his jaw obscenely slack, and John could actually see the contours of his prick stretching the skin of Sherlock’s neck. It was absurdly hot and he rocked dangerously on the edge of oblivion for one terrifying second before Sherlock pulled back up, his mouth soft and gloriously warm. He breathed wetly against the head of John’s cock for a moment, his body clearly struggling against near suffocation before he eased forward again, sliding John’s cock right down into his throat and swallowing again.

“Fucking _Christ_ , Sherlock,” John wailed, his hips arching again and unconsciously thrusting himself even further past the back of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock grunted and slid back again, his tongue licking at the thick saliva now coating John’s cock. Sherlock huffed a little and kissed at the crown once before pulling back entirely, wrapping his impossibly long fingers around John’s shaft and stroking upwards gently.

“Sorry,” he grunted, and John felt his tenuous control slip a little further at the gravelly quality. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that. I seem to require a bit more practice.” He shot John a filthy little smirk and leaned forward to place an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of John’s knee.

“You really don’t have to apologize,” John said, a bit shakily. “That was… the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me. Ever.” Sherlock’s small, honest smile was entirely disarming, and John felt a dangerous swell of affection unfurl sharply just beneath his ribs. He was so hard now he ached, and he reached a hand forward to catch at Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him bodily up the bed and taking his mouth in a kiss full of unspoken emotion and almost alarming need.

Sherlock groaned against his tongue and rocked his hips forward, and John was suddenly aware of Sherlock’s very hard, very hot, very _large_ cock nudging along the edge of his arsecheek. He probably should have been worried more about his imminent impaling, but all he could think was ‘ _I want that in me as hard and as deep as I possibly can take it.’_

He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud until Sherlock groaned into his shoulder, his cock jerking hard enough that John felt it all the way up his spine; a hot, yearning _need_ to be filled suddenly spreading through his abdomen like wildfire.

“Christ, John, if you keep saying things like that this will be over distressingly quickly.”

“Hurry up then,” John replied, shooting Sherlock a saucy little grin as he spread his legs wider, canting his hips up to rub against Sherlock’s inner thighs.

Sherlock hummed and John felt him shift, bracing all his weight on his left forearm and reaching between them with his right, pulling the tube of lubricant from god knows where and tipping a bit of the viscous fluid onto his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes flitted back up to his face as John felt two slick fingers reach tentatively for the skin behind his balls, slipping tantalizingly over his perineum and brushing almost hesitantly over his hole.

John felt his face flushing, arousal and embarrassed discomfort darkening his skin to a heated pink. He reached forward and ran trembling fingers through the soft curls at Sherlock’s temple, smiling softly when Sherlock closed his eyes, moaned under his breath, and leaned into the intimate contact.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, the pad of his middle finger running tight circles around the snug skin of John’s anus. It felt like every single nerve ending he had was attached to that small, wrinkled hole and he tried to regulate his breathing, but failed miserably.  

“Yes,” he whined instead, tilting his hips up and trying to coax Sherlock into pressing _in_.

“Are you—”

“ _Yes_.”

Sherlock huffed a small laugh into the tingling skin beneath John’s navel and finally pushed his finger in a fraction. It didn’t hurt, but John felt a jolt shoot up his spine. He could feel his body opening, tensing and pulsing, trying to draw Sherlock farther in with every stuttered heartbeat. It felt incredible, and John arched his back again, trying to push down onto Sherlock’s single finger, but Sherlock was holding himself frustratingly still.

God, he hadn’t expected this. The anticipation was nearly unbearable, and he found himself leaning into the touch, desperately trying to impale himself further. Sherlock’s face was wild and hot; a heavy, possessive expression darkening his eyes to a deep, stormy grey. He leaned forward and licked at the skin of John’s hip as he slowly tilted his finger, slipping it in deeper and unerringly finding John’s prostate with alarming accuracy.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John groaned, sparks of electric arousal spiraling through his limbs and causing his hips to twitch. He blinked his eyes open to find Sherlock grinning at him in smug satisfaction before he leaned in again and sucked John’s cock right down to the root.

“Oh _god_ ,” John bellowed, feeling the coiling edges of his imminent orgasm begin to tighten at the base of his spine. Sherlock’s head bobbed once before he pulled off the end of John’s cock with an obscenely slick sound, apparently realizing that John was dangerously close to coming before he even got the chance to fuck him.

Oh, sweet bloody _Christ_ , Sherlock was going to _fuck him_. John felt his body give over to sensation, feeling the pleasant stretch of two fingers as Sherlock panted against his thigh, small growling huffs of breath dancing along John’s groin with every twitch of Sherlock’s ridiculously long fingers. John felt spread open, invaded, _owned_ , and he sighed into the next press, Sherlock’s fingers rocking gently inside him now, though thankfully avoiding his prostate.

John felt like he was shattering apart, bursting into tiny fragments of radiant joy and overwhelming desire. Sherlock twisted his fingers, and John gasped at the pulling sensation, his insides quivering with each new pressure. Sherlock mouthed at his hipbone, slick saliva and hot sweat causing John to shiver, even as Sherlock pulled his fingers back marginally.

“No,” John gasped, clenching all of his muscles in an attempt to keep Sherlock exactly where he was.

“God, John,” Sherlock groaned and shoved his fingers back in deeper, drawing a low, desperate moan from John. “I need to move— _need_ to be inside you.”

John blinked his eyes open at the sheer want coloring Sherlock’s voice deeper and even more sinful, and gasped at the sight before him. Sherlock looked completely wrecked. There was a high flush staining his impossible cheekbones a dull crimson, his eyes were glassy and feral, his mouth bitten a dark, bruising red. He was absolutely gorgeous, and John felt the swell of emotion threaten to drown him again. Instead he sucked in a deep breath and nodded, trying not to whinge as Sherlock slowly slipped his fingers out of his body.

John felt absurdly bereft for a brief moment before Sherlock shifted up again, reaching along the mattress until he found the condom, unwrapping it clumsily in his haste and nearly dropping it twice. John let loose a skittish, nervous chuckle and watched avidly as Sherlock rolled the latex down his ridiculously hard cock. It looked almost comically huge to John, and he suddenly realized why Sherlock was a bit more than a little sore today.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, pausing for a brief second as he lined himself up with John’s loosened hole.

John gazed up at him and felt his heart lurch, feeling suddenly vulnerable and open in ways he’d never experienced before. Sherlock was staring down at him with so much yearning, John nearly lost his composure. He took a deep breath and reached forward, sliding one hand up the side of Sherlock’s neck and into his sweaty curls, the other wrapping tightly around the small of Sherlock’s back.

“Yes,” John whispered, and pulled both arms in. Sherlock dipped forward, mouth already open and wet, licking into John’s mouth just as his cock pushed insistently against John’s anus. John felt the push, then the give, and then the incredible stretch as his body opened and pulsed, drawing Sherlock in until his bollocks bumped gently against the swell of John’s arse.

_God_ , he was so indescribably full. It felt absolutely decadent, and John allowed his head to fall back, gasping wetly as Sherlock leaned back, resting all of his weight on his arms and drawing his hips back, only to slide forward again, excruciatingly slowly. John briefly registered that Sherlock was going slow on purpose: letting John’s body acclimate to the unfamiliar sensations of being penetrated, but his body was demanding _harder faster more_ and it was all he could do to bite back the demanding words that threatened to spill over his teeth.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, hips snapping abruptly forward. John felt the last of his restraint break at the movement. He threw his head back and wailed, bringing his knees up to either side of Sherlock’s hips and physically drawing him in. Sherlock growled again and began fucking him in earnest: rolling his hips in tight circles that had John seeing stars.

John clawed at Sherlock’s sweaty shoulders, trying to pull himself into each thrust, but it was useless. His muscles were trembling with every new shock of pleasure, Sherlock’s cock nudging against his prostate more often than not. John felt himself shaking, pulses of sensation singing through his veins with every brutal thrust of Sherlock’s hips. He needed more, but he wasn’t even sure what exactly he wanted.

Sherlock growled and bit at his collarbone, the momentary flare of pain bringing John’s wavering focus back to attention.

“Sherlock,” John panted, his back arching into the contact as Sherlock pushed just a little bit harder. “I need—”

Sherlock grunted and pulled back suddenly. John sincerely hoped the high pitched whine that permeated the room hadn’t come from him, but he didn’t have much time to contemplate it as Sherlock grasped his hips and forcefully flipped him over. John landed on his stomach, dazed for a moment at the sudden gravitational shift, but he scrambled to comply, pushing to his knees and arching his back. He tried really hard not to think about what he must look like: sweaty and flushed, his hole gaping and wet with lube, his cock dripping and heavy between his legs.

Sherlock clearly liked what he saw, though, since he immediately shifted forward, grabbing at John’s hips hard enough to bruise and forcing him to bend even further. John let his shoulders slump forward, resting his upper body on his forearms even as his fingers gripped desperately to the edge of the mattress. He expected Sherlock to thrust immediately into him again, and was getting a little impatient when he felt something distinctly wet and almost unbearably hot brush against his bollocks.

“ _Jeeesus_ ,” John moaned, and spread his knees apart as far as he could without collapsing. Sherlock hummed behind him and licked at his perineum, dragging his tongue up in a filthy, wet slide that had John quivering dangerously on the edge of coming.  He could feel his swollen anus contracting in time with his pulse, each heartbeat sending heat and endorphins rushing through his system. He didn’t even care that he sounded like a begging mess; he just needed Sherlock to _do something_.

He could damn well hear Sherlock’s smirk of satisfaction as he dug both of his thumbs into John’s buttocks and pried them apart, exposing his pink arsehole to the open air. John felt his face flush with mortification and confused arousal, and was halfway there to calling a halt to the whole thing when Sherlock hummed again behind him and leaned in further.

John felt damp breath brush across his spit-slick balls, and then Sherlock’s tongue was _there_ , circling and flicking and dragging across and pushing _in_ and John was lost. He felt his spine twist, felt his scrotum tighten as every single nerve in his body rerouted sensation to where Sherlock was tonguing him open, sliding his mouth wet and hot across John’s arse, Sherlock’s deep moans seeming to thrum right up into him as John’s whole body convulsed with pleasure.

John felt his orgasm beginning again, heat and tension coiling low in his abdomen, his muscles all locking up even as Sherlock thrust his tongue in as far as it would go. John was vaguely aware of the strangled noises coming out of him, but he was completely helpless against the onslaught of Sherlock’s unspeakably dirty actions. He truly hoped the proprietors of the B&B were still out, because he was powerless to stop the full-on screams he was barely muffling against the pillows as Sherlock’s tongue squirmed inside of him, his bony chin rubbing tantalizingly against John’s perineum every time he moved. John was frankly astounded to realize he miraculously hadn’t come yet, his whole body feeling like it was on _fire_ with each filthy lick of Sherlock’s tongue against his anus.

“Sherlock,” John sobbed, his voice broken and ruined, and he scraped his hands across the mattress in attempts to ground himself. “Sherlock _please_.”

Sherlock hummed behind him once more, dragging his tongue slowly out of John’s arse with one more teasing flick around the rim. John’s whole body pulsed, his muscles finally relaxing marginally in the few seconds it took for Sherlock to climb back up to his knees and position himself behind John. The initial breaching this time felt nothing short of magnificent, and John allowed his spine to drop, his whole body stretching and rolling with each deep push.

Sherlock was groaning above him, broken gasps mixed with a litany of John’s name and what sounded suspiciously like French. John couldn’t be arsed to care; his entire body throbbing with the need to come. He didn’t dare touch his own cock, knowing the minute he so much as brushed it, this whole thing would be over. Sherlock seemed to understand, and he picked up the pace, slamming into John hard enough to rock the entire bed, the mattress skittering along the frame and bumping into the side table. There was a muffled crash as the lamp was knocked to the floor, ceramic shattering as it collided with the hardwood, but it could barely be heard over the frankly embarrassing noises issuing from John.

John was teetering on the edge of bliss, every single muscle coiling tighter and tighter, but it still wasn’t enough. Sherlock growled again and scooped one arm around his abdomen, pulling him up with almost inhuman strength and nudging him forward to brace his arms against the wall. John’s spine curled again, pushing his hips back into every rocking lunge, and the new angle was finally enough. Sherlock’s cock slammed directly against John’s prostate with alarming accuracy and John felt himself shatter.

John’s whole body seemed to swell and contract, his cock shooting pulse after pulse of come across his abdomen, the wall and the bed, his vision greying around the edges even as his body trembled with the rush of release. He vaguely heard Sherlock muttering curses behind him, felt Sherlock pull him tighter, one long hand splayed across his chest and smearing John’s own ejaculate into his skin, the other snaking up into his hair and yanking his head back, Sherlock’s mouth opening against the nape of his neck, teeth sinking into his uninjured shoulder. John convulsed again, his cock twitching with aftershocks as Sherlock rode out his pleasure, desperate groans and half-formed curses spilling from his gorgeous mouth with increasing frequency.

John was exhausted, his limbs sore and useless, but he deliberately tightened down on Sherlock’s cock, his arse protesting, even as his brain wanted nothing more than to hear Sherlock fall apart. Sherlock groaned into his shoulder, his hands sliding down John’s body to grip at his hips again, blunt nails digging into his skin and leaving behind dark crescents. John contracted his muscles again, and he could actually feel Sherlock tip over the edge. Sherlock’s hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as his body shook with the force of his orgasm. He stilled briefly, fingers tightening on John’s hips before he rocked a few more times feebly, his cock emptying into the thin layer of latex.

John slumped forward into the wall, so exhausted he could barely be bothered to brace his arms up against the fading paper. Sherlock pushed forward against him, resting his forehead between John’s shoulder blades and running gentle hands up and down his sides in a rare show of intimacy. John smiled slowly to himself, feeling each panting gasp dance along his spine; Sherlock’s quick breath ghosting over his damp skin and causing him to shiver. Sherlock was still buried deep inside of him, and John could feel Sherlock’s cock twitching with aftershocks, even as his breath was smoothing into something approaching normal.

“John,” Sherlock finally purred, his hands sweeping up to circle around John’s heaving diaphragm. John felt Sherlock’s lips brush gently against the back of his neck, the rational part of his brain that was still functioning revelling in the fact that Sherlock was actively nuzzling against him like a great overgrown cat.

“Christ,” John panted. It was all he could reasonably manage at the moment, and he felt the sheer joy radiating off of him in waves. Sherlock hummed against his skin again and tipped his head forward to place small kisses along John’s jaw, affection and contentment rolling off of his skin and sinking into John’s consciousness like a warm blanket.

Sherlock finally heaved in a deep breath and pushed himself fully upright, gripping the base of the condom and easing himself out of John with a slick rush of lubrication and saliva. John felt the embarrassment coloring his cheeks, but he was too bloody knackered to do more than wince weakly and try to bully his body into compliance as he attempted to flop gracelessly down onto the bed. His knees were screaming at him and every single muscle in his body throbbed from overuse and residual dehydration.

“God, I’m getting too old for this,” John moaned as he gently twisted onto his side, hearing his spine crack and pop as each vertebra realigned itself. Sherlock huffed out a light chuckle and moved forward to envelope John in long, lanky arms and bony, wiry ribs. John grimaced again as he felt his congealing semen smear between them.

“Ugh. I am positively revolting right now,” John groaned, burying his face into the nearest bit of Sherlock’s chest he could find.

“Hmm,” Sherlock purred, his long fingers sweeping up the back of John’s spine and rubbing soothing circles into his sore muscles. “I think I quite like you sweaty, sated and covered in come.”

John couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbled up past his lips. “Sherlock, that’s disgusting,” he chided affectionately. He glanced up to see Sherlock’s eyes closed in contentment, a genuine smile stretching his ridiculous lips as he lounged back against the poor, bedraggled mattress.  They were both an utter mess, and John grinned in spite of himself.

“Well at least the evidence is overwhelming this time. I doubt we’ll have any more lapses in memory,” Sherlock stated. “I hate to think I’m missing memories anything as brilliant as that.”

“I think I’ll remember it this time, thanks,” John mumbled around breathless chuckles.

“Mmm, well maybe we should try it again,” Sherlock rumbled back, his eyes sweeping open to pin John with his gaze, absolutely alight with mischief, “Just to be absolutely certain.”

John snorted and leaned in, ignoring his aching body’s protests as he wrapped himself around Sherlock as tightly as he could. He grinned widely into the pale skin of Sherlock’s throat and felt his heart swell with unguarded emotion.

“I think that could be arranged,” he murmured, grinning wider at Sherlock’s shudder of renewed interest.

“You have thirty minutes,” Sherlock growled into his hair. “I’m going to take another shower, and when I come out I’m going to climb onto your cock and ride you until you can’t see straight.”

“ _Christ_ ,” John breathed, and then watched helplessly as Sherlock rose gracefully from the bed and sauntered towards the en suite.

“That is unless, of course,” Sherlock said, pausing at the door to send a smoldering glance over his shoulder, “You care to join me?”

John didn’t even bother to answer before scrambling out of bed and launching himself towards the open bathroom doorway. Sherlock’s dark chuckle rumbled through the sounds of splashing water until all noise was abruptly cut off by the slamming of the door.

  
  
  
  
  
  
_It started out curious, it started out fun_   
_We smoked in the woods when we were young_   
_And secretly slipped something under our tongues_   
_And danced the night away_   
_~Nights Become Days, Frank Turner_


End file.
